


All the things we move past.

by chrundletheokay



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, CPTSD, Canon Typical Substance Abuse, Charlie thinks of these mornings as Charlie and Dennis Early Morning Coffee Dates, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Dennis mentally calls it Fight Club because the first rule is don't talk about it, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, There's no romance here, all hurt / no comfort, also because he's dramatic af, but past abuse is the central theme, does not contain actual depictions of abuse, imho fics have a tendency to rely on nightmares as a set-up for romantic or sexual scenarios, just two self-loathing alcoholics shuffling over to starbucks far too early in the morning, so much so that it feels almost like a cliche, so this could potentially be triggering to survivors, that's not at all what this is about, the first rule of trauma club is don't talk about trauma club, there's a lot of (internalized) victim-blaming here, which is a mouthful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:35:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27544705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrundletheokay/pseuds/chrundletheokay
Summary: Occasionally, when neither Charlie nor Dennis can sleep, they'll meet up for coffee or for breakfast, or to drive around until the rest of the world starts to wake up again. They never talk about why they're there, why they can't sleep, or why they have nightmares. That's the first (unspoken) rule on mornings like these: Don't talk about it. Don't talk about why you're here.On this particular morning, Charlie breaks that rule.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35





	All the things we move past.

**Author's Note:**

> [ TW: childhood sexual abuse (CSA) ]
> 
> This does not contain any descriptions of assault or abuse, but CSA is a central theme. It also contains discussions of (past/internalized) gaslighting, re: the abuse.
> 
> If you're looking for the "comfort" part of the "hurt/comfort" equation... well, it's not here. Sorry. Unfortunately, it didn't feel in-character to me.

Charlie and Dennis have a system, of sorts.

They’ll occasionally text each other when they can’t sleep. On nights when their nightmares and insomnia overlap, the two of them will go to a diner at 3am, or walk to a nearby coffee shop just as it opens, or drive aimlessly around the city until something catches their attention. On one memorable occasion, they got high in a Target parking lot and were the first customers inside when the store opened at 7am. After getting separated in the chip aisle, Dennis spent a half-hour wandering around looking for Charlie, only to find him curled up asleep in a pile of stuffed animals.

On this particular morning, Dennis doesn’t seem particularly concerned about where they go. Charlie doesn’t care much, either. He only wants to take his body somewhere that is not a bed. Somewhere well-lit. Maybe somewhere public, with a lot of people around. Without much discussion, they agree to get coffee and begin to wander all the way over to the Starbucks on Broad Street.

Dizzy with exhaustion, Charlie watches the sun bleed warm hues of yellow-orange-pink over the city skyline. Flashes of his most recent nightmare play inside his skull, in spite of his best efforts to suppress the memories. It’s harder to fight when he’s tired like his. It’s hard to even think straight.

“Hey, Dennis,” he says as they approach Tenth Street.

“Hmmm?”

“You guys were right about him — about Uncle Jack.”

Dennis glances over briefly. “I know,” he answers, and that's it. There’s nothing on his face, nothing in his voice to go off of, no information to tell Charlie how he’s reacting to the news. Just a grim, blank façade. A lot of times, Charlie can tell what’s hidden beneath the bullshit of Dennis’s Golden God exterior, but not today. Not right now.

“Okay,” Charlie responds, swallowing down his discomfort. Or is it bile?

Maybe Dennis needs to think about it. Maybe he’s trying to come up with the perfect thing to say. He can be so particular about words and grammar and the way people talk.  And he comes up with these loud, self-righteous speeches when he's enraged, featuring bizarre metaphors about angry sea gods and and truly creative threats of physical violence. Charlie imagines he practices these diatribes in front of a mirror when Mac isn’t at home. They must get a lot of noise complaints from their neighbors.

Charlie pretends — hopes against stupid hope — that, in the silence that stretches onward, Dennis is mentally composing a speech for him. So he follows Dennis's lead, keeping his eyes trained on the sidewalk before them as they continue walking.

The silent tension builds; and that buzzing, vibrating, gotta-run feeling grows inside his chest until it’s unbearable. At Twelfth Street, Charlie breaks: “So you’re not gonna—”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, man,” Dennis cuts in, his voice a little too harsh and fast. Out of the corner of his eye, Charlie sees him clench and unclench his jaw, before continuing: “Like, I’m _sorry?_ That really _sucks?”_ The upward intonation at the end of the sentences is grating, but it’s not as painful as the derisive laughter Charlie always feared might accompany an admission like the one he made earlier.

Charlie laughs faintly, although none of this is remotely funny. “Yeah. Yeah, it kinda really does,” he says, in answer to the question-that-wasn’t-really-a-question.

“Can we not talk about this? I just—”

“Yeah,” he interrupts. He doesn’t care why Dennis doesn’t want to hear it. It feels bad to talk about, and it feels bad to think about. It feels bad to have this secret, and it feels bad imagining people knowing at long last. It doesn’t mater why Dennis doesn’t want to know — it doesn't change how any of it feels.

“It’s not that a don’t give a shit, it’s just—” Dennis stammers and gestures helplessly.

“Nah, it’s cool. I didn’t even wanna talk about it anyways. Like, that was all I… I mean, what else is there to say?”

Parallel lines form between Dennis’s eyebrows. He nods slightly, just once. “Right? I think that about covers it. You say it, you own up to it, and you move on — pretend it never happened.”

“You stuff it down,” Charlie agrees, although he can’t see how that is any different than what he’s been doing for almost forty years. It’s the same exact shit the Gang makes fun of him for doing.

It doesn’t matter, though. People do stuff all the time that Charlie doesn’t like — things like tease him or call him names or make up lies about how he can’t read — and he just moves past it. It works. Over the years, Charlie has developed a truly impressive aptitude for moving past things, both good and bad. For instance: Here he is, going to get coffee with Dennis, and he hasn’t once mentioned the time Dennis shot him in his head, or the time Dennis banged the Waitress. In fact, he hasn’t brought up either of those incidents in years, not even once. Charlie doesn’t get enough credit for that — for not mentioning it. He could hold that shit over Dennis’s head for the rest of their lives, but he chooses not to. And why? Because he’s _moved past it._ Moved past getting shot in the head. Moved past getting run over twice by Dennis, driving drunk. Moved past Dennis banging Charlie's soulmate, then breaking her heart. Moved past most of the memories of his childhood — entire Christmases and birthdays and summer vacations, and meeting even meeting Mac for the first time — all gone. Most of elementary school and junior high, and big chunks of high school, for that matter — all vanished into the aether. Who knew that was possible?

Charlie did. Because Charlie fucking _did it._

This other thing, though—This thing with Uncle Jack—It’s proving harder to move past, even though Charlie can’t remember the details. It’s been… He can’t remember how long exactly, can’t remember when it started, can’t remember when it stopped happening. But it’s been long enough. It's been years. Decades, even. Sometimes Charlie isn’t even sure it happened at all. Maybe it was nothing more than a series of nightmares, or the figment of a bad acid trip.

He’s always had such a vivid imagination.

Dennis nudges him lightly, an elbow to the side. Charlie blinks, and there it is in front of them: their destination. A person doesn’t have to be literate to identify a Starbucks, given that they all look exactly the same. It’s all about that brand identity. Charlie isn’t stupid.

He holds opens the door and follows Dennis in. It's not busy in there at all. Just a few customers waiting for their drinks, several baristas puttering around behind the counter, and acoustic guitar music playing over the speakers.

Dennis relays their orders to the barista and pays. He passes over Charlie’s cup afterward, and Charlie examines it closely. The barista spelled his name wrong: _C-H-A-R-L-I-E,_ it reads. Starbucks is infamous for fucking up names, but _Charlie?_ That’s a basic name. That’s simple. How can anyone misspell that?

“Dude, did you see this,” he asks, extending his cup in Dennis’s direction. “They got my name wrong. How are you gonna misspell ‘Charlie?’ ”

Dennis does a double-take and frowns slightly. “Uh, no. That’s, uh, that’s your name, buddy.”

“Is it?” It looks wrong. Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe the gang is right, and Charlie is illiterate. Or maybe they’re blind and can’t see the way letters squiggle and dance around on paper, as if dismayed to be trapped there, pressed down to that one spot for the rest of eternity.

“The handwriting’s complete shit,” Charlie lies. No matter how many times he's heard people say things like that, he has never been able to understand what distinguishes good handwriting from bad.

Dennis shakes his head and wanders off to a table by the plate glass windows. The two of them sit there in matching armchairs, sipping at their coffee in silence. After a few minutes, Dennis’s phone chimes with a text alert. He glances at the screen for a moment, rolls his eyes, and returns the phone to his pocket — Mac, presumably, demanding to know where Dennis is. Or maybe Frank, "accidentally" texting another dick pick to the group chat. (Charlie lost his phone in the sewer again, so he can't say for sure, and he's afraid to ask.)

As they sit in companionable silence, the morning crowd comes and goes. Charlie watches people enter: one or two at time, then a steady stream of people that builds to a small crowd. Almost as quickly, it fizzles out, leaving the coffee shop relatively empty.

Charlie's stomach churns and his entire body feels… almost slimy, in that unsettling way it does after nightmares. It's not slimy like kissing, or slimy the way sex is. It's slimy like gross. Slimy like the inside of his soul — dark and slippery and ugly, in a way he could never wash off, even if he tried. It's slimy and gross and dark, the way people apparently see Charlie — but the way Charlie never feels himself — after he scavenges for buried treasure in the sewers. Can the people passing through Starbucks see it in him? Can they tell how disgusting he is? What if they can look into his skull and see the faint shadows of dreams and memories playing out inside of him? He tries not to think about it. The louder the memories are, and the louder his thoughts are, the more likely these strangers will be able to hear it.

The guitar music continues playing over the speakers, although it’s difficult to hear at times over the morning commuters and coffee-drinkers. Charlie focuses as hard as he can, until the music fills his head, replacing the bad thoughts.

Does Starbucks hire musicians to write and record songs specifically to play in their coffee shops, and _only_ their coffee shops? Wouldn’t that be awesome? Compared to the coffee shop where the Waitress used to work, Starbucks is pretty fancy. They can definitely afford to throw a bunch of money around, so why not aim it at a local musician?

With that thought in mind, Charlie grabs a bunch of napkins from the milk bar and steals a pen from the shiny leather briefcase of a person who really should pay more attention to his surroundings.

The song should definitely mention Starbucks coffee by name, Charlie concludes. That's the most important part. That way, Starbucks has no option but to buy the song. Otherwise, Charlie will sing it anywhere and everywhere he goes, and bystanders will get confused about who the real Starbucks is. Charlie could walk into a Wawa and sing his Starbucks song, and people would say: "Is this a Starbucks? Guess it is now." H e could even sing it at Paddy's, to add some class to the place. "Is Starbucks a bar now? Or is the bar a Starbucks," customers might ask. Yes, and yes — at least, until Starbucks pays up.

_EYE DRNCK THEE STRR BUX KUFY,_ Charlie scrawls on his first napkin. He's off to a strong start, feeling creative, feeling productive. Maybe this day won't be so bad after all. _I drink the Starbucks coffee:_ a strong first line for a coffee song.

_ERRY DAY,_ he adds, although it's a blatant lie. On a janitor's salary, Charlie could never afford a daily cup of Starbucks. Coffee grounds stolen from a bodega and filtered through a sock? Definitely within his means. Far more delicious, anyway; far less burnt. Still, if Charlie is going to con these rich coffee shop assholes into buying his music, he won't accomplish it by writing: "Your coffee is overpriced and tastes burnt. I'd rather drink from an old sock."

So he has his first line. Perfect. What's next?

“Dennis," he says. “Hey. What rhymes with coffee?”

“Toffee,” Dennis answers, impressively quickly, without looking up from his phone.

“Nice,” Charlie exclaims. They were always such a good song-writing duo. Why did they ever quit? Dennis is quick with the rhymes, and Charlie understands instruments better than he does people. They could write a song together about toffee-flavored coffee, and make millions in Starbucks cash. Although what even _is_ toffee?

“Dude, we should write music and sell it to Starbucks to play in all their stores,” Charlie explains, even though Dennis still doesn't seem at all interested in his reason for asking about rhyming words. 

When at last he looks up, Dennis's face is one of puzzled judgment. He doesn't seem at all impressed. “And you thought you’d start with a rhyming song about _coffee._ Isn’t that a little on the nose?”

“Exactly! That’s why it’s so great. They’ll have to buy it — it’s a coffee song, and they're a coffee shop. It's perfect. I’ll show you; I’mma write something good. You’ll see.”

Fifteen or twenty minutes later, he peeks up from his frantic scribbling to find Dennis looking over with a frown etching deep lines into his face. When they make eye contact, Dennis immediately looks away, as if embarrassed to be caught staring. Charlie’s stomach twists and turns all over again. Mostly, he wants to scream, but that sort of behavior keeps ending with him being "asked to leave" all sorts of places. Still, Dennis sits there judging him — either as disgusting, damaged goods; or as a disgusting, filthy liar.

Charlie shouldn’t tell lies like he did earlier, about his Uncle Jack. He could get people in a lot of trouble that way, he remembers. He wouldn't want his Uncle Jack to go to prison, after all. Not over a little fib like that. It was just a misunderstanding. Charlie was just confused. He was always too sensitive, prone to tantrums, and unnaturally wary of his Uncle.

“I didn’t mean it, you know,” he blurts out. “What I said before, about Uncle Jack.”

It was just a bad dream, after all. We all have bad dreams. That doesn't mean we have to share them with everybody, and upset people. Charlie remembers this, too. He shouldn't have said anything.

Dennis casts his eyes toward the ceiling in a way that might mean "praying for strength," if he believed in God the way Mac does. But since it's Dennis, and he doesn't, it probably means he's resisting the urge to deck Charlie. From across the table, over the ambient noise, Dennis sighs audibly.  “No, of course not,” he utters. He's mad now, and Charlie is in trouble again.

Charlie was always such a bad kid. A bad kid who let the bad things happen — the bad things that must not have been bad things, because if they were, then surely someone would have stopped them from happening. Surely someone would have said something.

His head buzzes with static, like the fuzzy ants that dance around on his TV screen a lot, because it turns out it's hard to get a good picture when you're stealing your cable connection from the neighbors. He should get out of here. He should go somewhere Dennis can't see him, somewhere Dennis can't think to his face about what a disgusting person he is.  Maybe the sewers. Sewers are disgusting for all the right reasons. All the best reasons. And sometimes, Charlie can even find treasure buried in there, amid all the muck.

Without another word, Dennis hunches over his phone again and starts swiping away at the screen. He does this thing when he's pissed with the Gang, where he pretends he can't see them, even if they're sitting right across the bar from him. It's always obvious that he _does_ see them, and he's all the more irritated that he can't ignore them or get away from them and their bullshit.

“It’s just—I think I was probably just confused," Charlie says, because he knows Dennis can hear him. "So we probably shouldn’t talk about it anymore — like, ever again. Definitely not to my mom. Like... you can't tell her I told you that. Seriously. You should—Actually, you should probably just forget I said anything.”

“Right,” Dennis responds tersely. On the surface, his words say _okay,_ and _it's alright,_ but his tone of voice says: _Seriously? Fuck you._ And: _God, I hate you so much._

_You and me both, buddy,_ Charlie wants to say, except he’s already broken the rules by talking too much. Better to shut up and go back to being the funny fat guy. Everyone likes the funny fat guy, even Dennis. Even if the Gang likes to pretend that Charlie is neither funny nor fat. (Which is pretty rude of them, but then again, that's the Gang, through and through.)

Dennis tips back the last of his coffee and eyes the new swarm of people filling the coffee shop. “You wanna head over to the bar, or what." His voice is so flat, it hardly even sounds like a question, but Charlie answers anyway: “Yeah,” and he crumples up the stack of song-lyric napkins and shoves them into his jacket pocket.

Outside, cars whiz down the street as Charlie and Dennis wait for the crosswalk sign to change.

“You know I don’t talk to your mom, right,” Dennis says as he stares across the street to the fenced-off lot of dead grass beyond.

“Right. No, I just—”

“I don’t have jack shit to say to her.” Dennis still sounds slightly angry, although Charlie can’t imagine why. He can't imagine why Dennis is angry thinking about her. Charlie's mom has always liked Dennis, always been nice to him. She crocheted a set of matching potholders for his and Mac’s first apartment, gives them handmade ornaments every year for the Christmas tree Dennis refuses to let Mac buy, bakes for Mac and Dennis regularly, and even does their laundry on occasion. She does all sorts of things like that, things that a nice old lady might do for the people she loves. So why would Dennis be mad at her?

_Oh,_ Charlie thinks, and it finally clicks: _Things an old lady might do._

“Is it ‘cause she’s an old lady, and you’re scared of old ladies?”

“No! I’m not—” Dennis pauses for a moment, clenches his jaw, and takes a deep breath. When he starts speaking again, it’s more controlled, at a much lower volume, but he still sounds like he might want to punch Charlie. “I’m not afraid.”

“Really? ‘Cause it would make sense, what with the whole thing with the librarian—” Dennis’s hand clasps tight onto Charlie's upper arm, his fingernails digging into the soft flesh there, through the worn-thin material of Charlie's jacket “—and her being old, and a lady. An old lady, really, when you think about it.”

“Charlie, listen to me.” Dennis’s voice, low and rumbly, sounds unsettlingly like the one he uses to threaten people he believes have wronged him. “You are forty goddamn years old. Who gives a fuck what your mom—”

“So you’re saying it was a long time ago, probably,” Charlie babbles over him, desperately trying to tune out the sound of Dennis's voice. He isn’t sure he wants to hear what Dennis has to say anymore. Not when his face looks like that. 

“You’re over it. I'm over it," Charlie continues rambling. "And it's like, you don’t even remember what happened, or when, or why; so it’s not a big deal." Over Dennis’s shoulder, the crosswalk sign starts flashing the countdown of big, red numbers that means: _IF YOU HAVEN'T CROSSED YET, YOU’D BETTER START RUNNING._ "Oh, look we’re missing the light,” he yelps.

“Charlie,” Dennis snaps. “Your uncle is a fucking creep, okay? He’s a pedophile, man. You need to get that through your head.”

This is what it must feel like to be a stress ball, Charlie reflects numbly, as Dennis grips on tighter, and Charlie's heart races harder, and he wants nothing more than to melt into a puddle of Charlie-goo and sink through the concrete sidewalk below. He'd go down, down, down, deep into the earth, where no one could see him, and no one could touch him, and no one could speak to him ever again. Just Charlie and the earthworms, and whatever scaly, fanged, fire-eating creatures live beneath the earth's crust.

Human bodies don't work like that, though. They never have. Dennis's claws keep him grounded. This is where he's stuck, until Dennis decides to let go. And he will; he always has. Then again, people always let go, until they don’t anymore.

“You shouldn’t—" Charlie shakes his head. He tries to focus. He tries to sound convincing, but inside his head, there's a loud siren wailing that the sky is about to fall. "You shouldn’t say that about people. You could get them in a lot of trouble,” he stammers.

Dennis narrows his eyes and takes a step closer. “And that’s why I don’t talk to your mom. Not ‘cause I’m afraid; but ‘cause of shit like that,” he hisses.

Charlie can’t follow any of this. He shakes his head mutely. Normally, he’d tune out of a conversation this difficult to understand, but this one feels important. He can’t let Dennis take control of this conversation and run with it — not when he's talking like this. If Dennis repeats these lies to people, he could get Uncle Jack sent to prison for a long time. And everyone would know it was Charlie's fault, because the lies were about what Uncle Jack did to — or with — Charlie.

“She put that shit in your head, dude,” Dennis exclaims, gesturing wildly in Charlie's direction, like maybe he's concerned Charlie doesn’t know where his own skull cavity is. Charlie can't help but flinch, and he hates himself for it.  “She knew what was happening! Of _course_ she knew. You think a parent doesn’t know what’s happening in his own house? _Her_ house. _Goddamnit.”_

He doesn't understand what Dennis is talking about, but his gut says it's just as much about himself as it is about Charlie. There’s a tense silence, as Dennis stares over Charlie's shoulder into the middle distance, where there's nothing but an expanse of entirely unremarkable concrete. Charlie recognizes that feeling (or lack thereof) all too well; it’s unsetting to see it reflected back at him from Dennis’s face. He twitches with an urge to shove at Dennis, to push him away, to knock him to the ground — anything to wipe that expression off his face.

“You’re hurting my arm,” he manages at last, for lack of anything better to say. With a start, Dennis looks down at where his hand still grips tight to Charlie’s bicep, and he drops it as if it’s burned him. His now empty hands clench into fists. He looks to the crosswalk, where the white stick figure is lit up again, saying _CROSS._

Without another word, Dennis stalks off into the intersection. Charlie dashes along behind him, and they cross side-by-side in silence.

“Whatever happened, or didn’t happen," Charlie says as they start down the block, and he strains to keep his voice low as they pass by a gaggle of people waiting for a bus, "you’re right. It was a long time ago. It wasn’t a big deal. I should be over it by now. I’m-I’m an adult. It's fine.”

_“Seriously?”_

“What,” Charlie responds defensively.

“Of _course_ it was a big deal, and you _shouldn’t_ be past it. You should probably be in therapy, if I’m being completely honest.” Dennis pauses. The creases between his furrowed brows deepen. "No. No, you should _definitely_ be in therapy. But we both know that’s not gonna happen, so…”

Dennis stops and casts his gaze around the street corner, at the people milling past them. For a brief flash of a moment, Charlie wonders if he might throw himself in front of the oncoming SEPTA bus. He doesn't know what makes him think that.

“Shit. Do you wanna get drunk? Let’s just get drunk,” Dennis says suddenly.

Charlie nods. “Yeah, alright.”

—

Several hours later, Mac finds the two of them passed out on the floor in the back office. They offer him no explanations. Much like Fight Club, the first rule of Charlie and Dennis Early Morning Coffee Dates is: Don’t talk about it. Don't talk about any of it.

Charlie has already broken that rule once today. He won't do it again.

**Author's Note:**

> The longer (almost certainly unnecessary) explanation for this fic:
> 
> The first fic I ever wrote (which I never finished or posted, because it became far too long, unwieldy, and OOC) explored the process of Charlie disclosing his childhood trauma to the Gang. In it, I had Mac, Dennis, and Dee respond in a way that felt compassionate and supportive. I think that's partly why the discussion about Charlie's trauma in "Time's Up" was so distressing/triggering to me. But imho, handling it in a compassionate way ultimately seems OOC for the Gang. So I suppose this is my attempt to write something that feels more in-character (for me, at least).
> 
> I think Dennis's own shit would prevent him from handling the discussion in a sensitive or caring way. I think his inability to come to terms with his own past trauma, as well as his refusal to acknowledge that he himself is a perpetrator, would prevent him from being there for Charlie in any meaningful way. It's like... acknowledging that these bad things happened to Charlie would force Dennis to acknowledge what he himself has experienced, and what he has done to other people. So it's easier, in a way, to lash out at Charlie — to be angry at Charlie, instead of at himself, or instead of at the people that have hurt them.
> 
> This was my second attempt at writing a fic about CharDen Early Morning Coffee Dates (god, that's a mouthful), and it was not as soft as I'd wanted it to be, but alas... neither are the Gang.
> 
> feel free to talk to me about charden early morning coffee dates on the wasteland formerly known as sunny tumblr: @chrundletheokay, same as on here.


End file.
